Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, bullying, death, flash fiction, love, poem, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized

Retribution

Insecure angry man, controller, punisher chastiser. Head worker action skiver. Putting you down, you can’t do right, shouting out of spite, bruises and broken bones, checking of mobile phones. Telling you what to wear, who you can go with, what time and where. If your late back you will get a whack.

Push you to the floor hand shut in the door, why do you take anymore? Backed in a corner cowering low on the floor waiting for the next blow. The pain shoots through your stomach, fear coursing through your veins, as you double up waiting for more violence to rain, hoping your life doesn’t drain.

Excuses and lies, shades cover bruised eyes, he has come back to apologise giving a flash of puppy dog eyes. Talk and talk he even cries crocodile tears to a lay your fears. Back again you let him come, you still love this son of a gun. All is calm sweetness and like, then he changes, controlling once again, you let it go as you don’t want the strain, deep down you know what will happen again.

Blue lights come to take you away, string to the end now he must pay. He’s dead on the floor inside the door, battering and bruising he can do it no more. For your trouble, you fall foul of the law, for killing a man who treated you worse than a whore, can’t they see it’s not murder it’s settling the score.

© All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, flash fiction, love, poem, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized

My Little Girl

Can I protect you from this wicked world and keep you wrapped up as my little girl? But I want you to be your own world. I want to stop you getting hurt, keeping you alert to the world that will corrupt, interrupt and disrupt you. The world that will slay you pray on you; mess with you.

How can I make you see, stop you making the same mistakes as me, making your life wonderful and complete, keeping your life nice and neat? Preparing you for the challenges you will meet and people who will try to take your seat.

Can I Save You from your soul, save you from digging a big hole, wrap you up and hide you from the world so you stay as pure as snow? but, in my heart I think you know what you need to do, but it doesn’t stop me worrying about you.

© All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

 

Markey Mark Symmonds anxiety, Blog, Blogger, bullying, flash fiction, love, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized

The Spy that Loved Me

Follow me down to the wire where I am, what I do, you always enquire, of your checking I tire, trapped in the circle like a funeral Pyre. I wish you would go and let me be free instead you are constantly monitoring me. I once let my emotions run free but never thought you would bring me to my knees.

The shouting and scowling and balling us out, safe in the knowledge we won’t walk out, and if we do you will protest your love and claim you will meet him above. All I ask for is to be loved. To be trusted to stay true, can’t you see I only loved you? now I’m not sure whether that’s even true. I want to be free to just be me, it’s not about who I’m going to see it’s all about you stifling me.

So, pull up your anger and soften your voice, come here and love me it’s really your choice, listen to my heart and hear my voice before you leave me with no choice. I’m not scared of being alone of having my freedom in my own home. Of thinking and feeling and being whole once again not having to play these stupid games.

© All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

 

Markey Mark Symmonds anxiety, Blogger, death, doubt, flash fiction, love, Mental Health, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized

Your Arms

Where did that love go? where was the connection, devoid of affection? all that’s left is reflection. No arms around me when I needed you most, when I couldn’t ask for your hug, you never saw the need, all alone just me. Feeling helpless and rejected needed to be connected.

Too much to bare, I sit and stare in the chair tablets and alcohol, life on the edge, no one to Pull me back from the impending black. You hid upstairs hoping it would soon end, all I needed was a friend their arms to lend, to be held tight through the night. On the phone to someone unknown, kind Samaritan hold my hand, tell me who I really am.

Wedge driven in our lives, I’m not sure why I’m alive. Yet another day to strive to give it my all, treated as a fool, used like a tool. Feeling unloved, uncared for, sick of this war, no one to look out for me, just a wreckage feeling so lonely, a rusting frame driven insane but still in the game. Suicide had nowhere to hide, I could have tried but once the tears had dried I knew I could not escape this lonely place, as looking after you all, I had to face guilt about what would be if you had all lost me. I don’t like this responsibility; the scar won’t heal with any amount of poetry. All I wanted was very simple and easy yes all I wanted was your arms around me. Saying that I am OK as me, arms that could set me free, to help me just be.

Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, death, flash fiction, lost, love, poem, Poetry, political, short story, Uncategorized

Aftermath

No homes, no aid from a government decayed, food and clothes and shelter a community has paid, where was the establishment to come to their aid, to put lives back together, they lost everything they made. Ten pounds per person, the insult worsens, where is the money donated by other human persons?

A room for the night warm and safe, is that too much to ask; when if you miss a holiday flight, hotels abound; four hundred people with nowhere to live, the irony is profound. The scandal of abandonment, leave them to rot, community cohesion has decided not. Government officials make their excuses home they go to a warm bed and behave like recluses, there are no reasonable excuses.

Subclass comes to the for rocking the country to its core, too big a gap between rich and poor, all because you draw the short straw. Victorian values heaped on the poor. This should not be happening not even in war what do we pay or taxes for. Kill all the subclass make them weak, don’t give them houses they desperately seek. Rich man’s world turned upside down by a blaze in a block on the other side of town.

©All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, doubt, love, poem, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized

Do I ?

Do I live in your heart or is it just a resting place, just at the start? Do I flow through your body as a life force weaving its certain course, showing no remorse? Do I beat in time with you and in your body, meet? Do you breathe me in, taste me just like gin, bath in me till I’m in every hollow, in me do you wallow?

Do I flicker in your head before you go to sleep in bed, thoughts that stay with you moving through your body free falling like lead? Do I slide under your skin coating your body with a layer so thin? Do I sit within your ear silently, do you hear me and do you see me through those eyes, through those salty tears stored up through the years?

Do I come to you at night when your fears come out to play, or will you choose to face them alone and push me out the way? Will, I be in your soul when you face the hardest days and will that soul let me roll around in your haze, bringing peace and harmony when you are in a daze? Will you take all of me, not just what you see, and spread me around yourself like a suit of armour made to protect your health? When the day is long and life is but a bore will you call my name, asking of me for more?

Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, flash fiction, love, play, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized

Playground

Black safety surfaces highlight the bright colours of the playground with children all around, they climb and run and jump, on metal frames and trains. they imagine they are climbing a mountain to rescue fair maids and gallop away.

Driving a train passenger laden picking up knights and maidens. A large swing hangs like a disc, carries several children on the journey they wish. Slides and roundabouts all to wear the kids out. then comes the ice cream, it cools them down in the mid-day heat, a real treat, strawberry sauce real sweet. Back to their play and imagination all day, dancing and singing and rocking in the sun’s rays. Play in a group or just on their own, there is plenty to do until it’s time to go home.

 

Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, bullying, doubt, flash fiction, lost, love, Mental Health, poem, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized

Communication Breakdown

I try to communicate with you but you just get in a rage, doesn’t matter if I try to speak or put it on a page. I talk a lot but no one ever hears, my voice only echoes back through my ears. I could shout from a mountain top, it would not leave a blot, would it really bother you? cos you don’t give a jot.

My voice echoes inside this empty vessel trying to make you hear but you may as well not be here, my voice travels nowhere near. All I want is for you to hear, to speak without fear, without ridicule and for you not to sneer. So, when the words come out all the same it’s because I’ve said them over again.

Your attention I must gain this saga is becoming in vain, to say what I want to say, nothing inside my soul but anger and dismay. My thoughts are only decay, communication is such a tough game to play, its driving me insane again and again, overloading my brain.

 

Markey Mark Symmonds army, Blog, Blogger, bomb, Boots, flash fiction, lost, love, poem, Poetry, political, short story, Uncategorized, underground

Deserted Street

Men and boys say good bye all know the reason why. Called up to serve in a war they don’t deserve on the front line, not reserves. Whole Streets fighting together as a regiment. Swathes of streets empty of men who will never return. Desolate streets no dads to greet, no sons to hug mums, just dear Johns, to all the friends you meet.

Workers side by side, they all came for the same ride, work as a team one unbreakable seam, and go down with a scream. Waste of men and boys who will never know life, but briefly met strife. No guns fired or fixed Bayonet charge, the enemy is still at large. Longing for home, their bed and clean sheets, seeing their families again and walking down those deserted streets.

In their heads, their family implanted safe return not taken for granted. Over the top their turn to drop, an entire street, downed by men from an unpronounceable town. Leaving heart ache in a deserted English Street. Mothers cry, children wonder why, when the officer drops by house after house on the same Street, tears and sadness at each one they meet, finally leaving the deserted Street.